Stitches and Suppositions
by starry19
Summary: Set sometime post 4x10. "It had been a long, terrible day. The case they had been working on had gone from the standard bust-the-bad-guy type of night to the sneaky-bad-guy-busts-you-over-the-head-when-you're-busy-being-concerned-about-Lisbon's-shouts type of night." Featuring Jane, Lisbon, head wounds, and promises.


**A/N: **No, they're not mine. A big, ugly THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed "Absolution and Eggs." I'm sending you happy thoughts.

**Summary:** It had been a long, terrible day. The case they had been working on had gone from the standard bust-the-bad-guy type of night to the sneaky-bad-guy-busts-_you_-over-the-head-when-you're-busy-being-concerned-about-Lisbon's-shouts type of night.

**Stitches and Suppositions**

It had been a long, terrible day. The case they had been working on had gone from the standard bust-the-bad-guy type of night to the sneaky-bad-guy-busts-_you_-over-the-head-when-you're-busy-being-concerned-about-Lisbon's-shouts type of night.

He had been punched in the nose a fair few times before, and that hurt like hell. Being cracked in the head hurt a hell of a lot more, and for longer. And there was also the fact that head wounds bled copiously, and that this particular head wound required stitches.

Lisbon had checked him over cursorily, but her attention had been diverted by the bullet in Cho's shoulder. As it should have been, but it would have been nice to have her fussing over him. So he had gone to the hospital, been treated, and had gone back to CBI, thinking that the worn leather of his couch and the creaking of the floor would offer him some measure of peace.

The low lighting was soothing, but it was damned difficult to get comfortable, what with the throbbing in his temples. From far off, he heard the elevator ding. Lisbon's footsteps clicked lightly on the floor. He quirked his lips briefly, before she would be able to see him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, voice coming from the doorway.

"Trying to sleep," he replied, not bothering to open his eyes.

Her voice was closer the next time she spoke, softer. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I have seven stitches in my head." He paused. "How's Cho?"

"He'll be fine," she said. "He's on some heavy-duty painkillers, so he's feeling pretty good right now."

Speaking of painkillers, his were starting to kick in. Maybe he was going to sleep tonight. He'd probably wake up exhausted. That's what happened when you didn't sleep for eight years. Your body suddenly remembered what it was like and protests loudly.

"Let me see your head," Lisbon said. The pitch of her voice told him she was bending over him.

He made a noncommittal noise. Lisbon apparently took that as consent, dropping onto the couch next to him. "Let me see," she said again.

He made another noise, and then her fingers were brushing through his hair. It was amazing how hands that could fire a gun with such speed and accuracy could be so gentle. Without thinking, he pushed himself up and sideways, resting his head in her lap. Lisbon paused for a moment, surprised, but then her hands continued, searching for the rough edges of his wound.

"It doesn't look so bad," she said, considering.

He opened his eyes, turning so he could see her face. "Thank you for the second opinion, Dr. Lisbon."

She scowled playfully. "All I'm saying is that I've seen worse." Her hands resumed their slow, careful motions.

It was an unspeakably lovely sensation, lying there with his head in her lap. Startling thought – it had been almost a decade since he had been held like this, quietly in the arms of a woman who cared about him deeply. To be so connected, so close to someone…it was something that he had taken for granted until it was gone. And since Angela, he had really had no desire to be this near, emotionally or physically speaking, to anyone. But he hadn't realized until this moment how lonely he had been.

Without thinking again, he reached for one of Lisbon's hands, lacing their fingers together and pressing their joined hands to his chest. She let him, fingers curling around his just tight enough to signal she didn't want to pull away. He could feel her pulse, more rapid than normal. He twitched his lips again.

"You're a homicide detective," he said in reply to her last observation. "I certainly hope you've seen worse."

"Don't give me any grief, Jane," she warned. "Two members of my team were wounded tonight. My tolerance of smart-asses is pretty low right now."

Like usual, he neglected to follow her directions. "Then why did you go looking for the smartest smart-ass you know?"

She sighed, and he knew she rolled her eyes. "Because I wanted to make sure he hadn't crashed his smart ass into a tree on the way home from the hospital." Her tone was flat and clipped. Exasperated. "Generally, doctors frown upon driving yourself home after receiving head wounds."

He waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture. "I didn't drive _home_, so no worries."

Lisbon's irritation made her less careful, and her fingers strayed too close to the gash in his scalp, held together with angry black stitches. He winced.

"Sorry!" she said, instantly contrite, all annoyance gone. The gentle nursemaid was back. "Can I get you anything? Tea?"

The idea was worth considering, but he would have to sit up to drink it, and that didn't sound like a very pleasant prospect at the moment. "Just stay here for a bit," he said, squeezing her fingers lightly.

"Alright," she whispered, settling back into the couch cushions. He shifted his head, leaning into her further.

God, there was something to be said for controlled substances. If he felt like this every time he was on them, he would consider throwing himself into field work more often. He was warm, relaxed. Peaceful, even. It was going to take a lot of effort to open his eyes again. Lisbon's hands were still on him…

The sound of the elevator dinging rudely jerked him out of the doze he had been in. Quickly, but still carefully, Lisbon extracted herself from him. He missed her touch immediately, and curled his fingers into a fist to stop himself from reaching out.

Footsteps passed by the entrance to the bullpen, and they were alone again. But the moment had passed. He met Lisbon's eyes, and saw that she was unsure of herself, of what had just happened, and a little embarrassed. If he had really tried, he was sure he could have convinced her to return to her role of human pillow, but she wanted time to work things out by herself. And maybe he needed some time to think things over, too.

Now that he really considered it, he was definitely acting mildly out of character. Yes, the drugs were working. Insta-drunk, that's what they made him. He mentally snorted. _Insta-drunk_? And he definitely wasn't making an effort to reign in his inhibitions. Bad idea.

"I'm going home," she told him. "It's been a long night, and I'm ready for it to be over."

He nodded slightly. "Go get some rest. Hey, if you're lucky, maybe you can sleep for three whole hours."

"As long as no one else turns up murdered," she muttered darkly, glancing at her watch. "Are you staying here?"

He opened his eyes wide in feigned innocence. "I'm not supposed to be driving, don't you remember?"

She considered smacking him lightly, he knew, but instead, she reached for the blanket draped across the back of the couch and spread it over him. The fabric, soft as it was, was a poor substitute for Lisbon herself, but he supposed it was going to have to do.

"Take it easy, okay?" she asked, crouching down to be at his eye level.

"Easy. Right. Got it." It was going to take a large, important homicide, probably one involving lots of rich people, to get him off this couch. Lisbon was probably going to want to kick his ass by the end of tomorrow.

And then she succeeded in surprising him, leaning over and kissing his cheek. His eyelids fluttered shut for a moment. Her lips were soft, supple. "Mmm," he murmured. This was unexpected. And nice.

"Goodnight, Jane," Lisbon whispered.

He met her eyes fully. Those beautiful greens were wide open. He could kiss her, he realized suddenly, really kiss her. It would be easy. She would let him, would respond. He'd bet that she'd taste like coffee and something sugary. Bear claws, probably.

But then tomorrow would be awkward. She would pretend like it never happened, but the dynamic would be altered between them. He was not willing to do that, not just yet. Someday, when she was surer of her feelings, and he maybe wasn't so damaged, he would have no issues with causing a whole new level of tension at the office. In the meantime…

"Night, Lisbon," he replied.

She took one last, searching look into his eyes, then turned on her heel and left.

When she was out of his sight, he let out a quiet breath, folding his arms behind his head. His mind drifted. So what if he would have kissed her? He would probably still be kissing her, that's what.

His mind took him there. His hands in her hair, this time, curving around the shape of her skull. Maybe resting on her tiny waist, holding her in place. Not that she would need his encouragement to stay.

He doubted she would have totally given herself over to her instincts, delightful as that may have been. Again, he was sure he could have…brought her around…but it was better to let her get there on her own.

He could give her some time. It had certainly taken him long enough to get to this point. To realize that he wanted to know what she looked like when she was asleep in his arms, what she looked like with her hair spread out on the pillow beneath her, how long it took to kiss her breathless.

The blanket Lisbon had thrown over him was rapidly becoming unnecessary. It was still a novel concept – wanting, really _wanting_, someone. Oh, he had always thought she was beautiful. He might not have been interested in her as a woman, but he could still appreciate the picture she made.

And then things had started to change. She was trustworthy, loyal. As much as she threatened him, she had never abandoned him. She had seen him do some pretty heinous things, and was still willing to sit across from him when they were having lunch. She humored him, she protected him. She had brought him back to himself, even.

There were not words to describe what had happened to him the night he had regained his memory. Forgetting Charlotte and Angela…that had been unforgivable. And he had paid. Doubled over, holding onto the door frame to keep from falling, sheer agony rushing through his body.

He was drowning, drowning in it. Memories, dark and deep and twisted, flung themselves at him. Smiling red faces leered at him. He felt the report of a shotgun as it fired, saw the bullet rip through a would-be killer. Saw the life leaving Carter's eyes. Saw Charlotte's hand, curled into a tiny fist while she slept.

When he climbed out of the cruel, tormenting darkness, he was on the hallway floor, tangled around Lisbon, sobbing heedlessly into her neck.

"I'm sorry, so sorry," she whispered over and over, arms wrapped fiercely tight around him. From somewhere far off, he realized that she was crying, too.

It seemed like hours passed before he managed to get a grip on himself. He stayed where he was, breathing heavily, forehead pressed to Lisbon's shoulder. Dimly, he realized he was trembling. With effort, he spoke.

"You'd think after almost nine years, this sort of thing wouldn't happen." His voice sounded all wrong.

Her fingers stroked his hair. "It hadn't been nine years for you tonight. It was brand new."

Slowly, carefully, he leaned back. "Thank you," he whispered, holding her eyes. "For bringing me back."

Lisbon gave him the ghost of a smile. "Are you really thankful?" she asked, a touch of humor threading through her voice.

He attempted a smile. "I'm sure I will be." Another deep, controlled breath and he felt better.

They sat against the wall, shoulders touching. Lisbon made no effort to break the silence, letting his thoughts align themselves. Remembering the past few days, he suddenly grinned genuinely, though it still felt rather shaky.

"Do you want me to apologize for propositioning you on numerous occasions?" he asked. "Oh, or how about apologizing for trying to cop a feel?"

She smiled in the darkness next to him. "No apology necessary. I think it's safe to say that you weren't yourself."

"How tempted were you to shoot me?"

She considered. "Fairly, once or twice."

"Do you think I should call that lovely woman I picked up? I imagine she's probably bored with trying to charm Cho and Rigsby."

Lisbon snorted. "I think you should return the bracelet you bought her and then give back the rest of the money."

He sighed dramatically. "If you insist." A new thought occurred to him. "Were you really going to let me quit?"

"I didn't really have a choice, Jane," she shrugged. "Besides, your memory would have come back eventually. I was counting on it."

"What made you change your mind tonight and bring me here? I'm not mad about it, just curious," he hurriedly tacked on.

She chewed on the inside of her lip, contemplating her answer. "I could let you go back out into the world if you were content to just be a fraud. But clearly, you weren't. When I knew you took the money, I had to try to bring you back. I didn't want you to forget who you'd become."

The rest of the night had been long, arduous. Lisbon had stayed for a few drinks that he had desperately needed, and he had been grateful for that, but the silence that was left in her wake was overwhelming.

He wanted her to come back. Or, maybe more precisely, he wanted to leave with her. Escape this silent tomb of a house.

He slept on the living room floor that night, jacket wadded up under his head. The bedroom was not something he could face. Sheer emotional exhaustion allowed him to sleep without dreaming for once.

He was late for work the next day. It was such a novel concept that he stopped on the way to CBI and bought everyone coffee to celebrate the occasion.

For the first few hours, everyone watched him like a hawk, making sure he wasn't about to fleece them, or strike any deals with murder suspects. He was used to being the center of attention, but this was almost grating.

Before lunch, he escaped into Lisbon's office. She didn't bring up the night before except to ask how he was feeling, for which he was very grateful. He lounged on her couch, listening to the sounds of her working, until the shrill ringing of her cell phone signaled the beginning of another case.

They had been closer since that, more banter, more accidental-on-purpose contact. At least, it was deliberate on his part. But he was a take-charge sort of guy when it came to subterfuge and subtlety.

They were working towards something. After all the years they had been together, they were finally moving in the same direction.

He was dealing with new forms of guilt now. Originally, his quest to kill Red John was strictly to extract vengeance and then…nothing. He had made no plans past that point. Now…now he still wanted to destroy that monster for revenge, certainly, that was foremost, but then…he could get on with his life. He could stop coming home to an empty house marred by a serial killer's signatures.

That's where the guilt came in. From wanting to get on with his life. He had no intention of doing that until Red John was really and truly dead, but he definitely intended to do so nevertheless. Angela and Charlotte had no lives to get on with. What kind of person was he, that he was going to move on?

Any licensed shrink would tell him that those sorts of feelings were outrageous. Rationally, he knew that. But it didn't stop him. Even knowing his wife would probably smack him across the face for his current mindset wasn't helpful.

A woman's heels sounded on the floor outside the bullpen, coming closer. Van Pelt, no doubt. Even when half of the unit was injured, _someone_ had to man the phones. She stopped when she saw him lying prone on the couch.

"I am, like, ninety-five percent certain you're supposed to be in the hospital," she said by way of greeting.

He cracked his eyes open. "Spare me the lecture. I've already heard it once from Lisbon."

She sighed, shrugging out of her jacket. "Suit yourself. Can I bring you anything?"

He waved a hand. "If it's all the same to you, I'm going to pass out here for the next several hours."

Grace made an elaborate hand gesture, clearly meant to convey that he could do whatever the hell he felt like. Amused, he closed his eyes. Grace was the sort of woman he would have hoped his daughter would have grown up to be. Smart, capable, tough enough to survive anything, but not afraid to believe in things like magic. Even if there was no such thing.

The sound of Grace tapping on her keys was soothing. And if he tried hard enough, he could still feel the phantom warmth of Lisbon's arms. Maybe if he slept on her couch it would be even easier to conjure up his memories.

But then again, that required moving, something he was fairly certain was a bad idea.

With a touch of amusement, he realized that painkillers were making him ramble mentally. He made an effort to turn off his brain, sliding into the blackness that had been gathering at the corners of his consciousness for some time now.

His dreams were filled with brunettes and emeralds and, for some reason, a very judgmental Cho wearing a top hat. He supposed there was no accounting for what his drug-addled psyche had dredged up. Still, he thought the addition of a glittering bow-tie on Lisbon's right hand man was a little much, even for his mind.

As was the norm when he was actually sleeping, dawn came too fast. Strange – during the long periods of insomnia, the nights never seemed to want to let go, let him go.

Slowly, he became aware that the natural light of morning was filtering through the paned windows. The noise level told him that it was probably after just before eight. He squeezed his eyelids shut, attempting to force the massive headache he had just noticed away. Oh, God, his temples were literally going to burst from throbbing, he was sure.

"How're you feeling?" Lisbon's soft, concerned voice floated to him from not far away.

With some difficult, he spoke, his voice hoarse and rasping. "Shoot me."

She chuckled, very lightly, and he felt mildly betrayed. He heard her moving, felt one hand run down his face. "Can you sit up?" she asked.

He figured she wouldn't have asked if there wasn't some purpose in him doing so. He shifted, pushing himself up with his arms. The change in gravity made him moan. Maybe his skull had cracked open. That seemed like a reasonable explanation for the amount of pain he was in. One of Lisbon's small hands found his.

"Here," she whispered, dropping three small pills in his palm. "These'll help. Do you need water?"

Blindly, he swallowed the medication, chased it with the paper cup of water she put in his other hand without him asking.

"Am I supposed to feel like I'm dying?" he demanded, opening his eyes for the first time. They landed on Lisbon's face. She looked composed, refreshed, like she had slept well. He was glad, even in the midst of his own pain. However, he was quite certain _he_ looked like the male equivalent of a murdered hooker.

"Yeah, pretty much," she responded, lips turning up slightly. "That'll get better, I promise. Now lay down. You're not working today."

"No argument here," he mumbled, easing back to his prone position.

She pulled the blanket back up, subtly tucking him in. He was oddly touched by the gesture. She never failed to show him that she cared. He needed to remember to do the same.

"Thank you," he whispered, finding her eyes. "For taking care of me. Even if I am a huge pain in your ass."

She smiled fully this time. "Don't mention it." Her gaze held his for a moment longer, and he knew that she was thinking about kissing his cheek again. He wished she would, wished he could feel the heat from her body again, feel the soft press of her lips on his roughly stubbled cheek.

But then he heard Rigsby, arguing loudly about last night's game with Andy from Narcotics. Lisbon took a step back.

"One of these days," he said, closing his eyes, "no one's going to walk down that hall and save you from these moments."

There wasn't really a reply she could make to such a statement, so he assumed she just made a face at him before walking away, heels clicking on the floor.

He wasn't sure what possessed him to toss such a vague and insinuating threat her way. He also wasn't sure if he was sorry for saying it. But it was inevitable, really, that they would be forced to confront this thing between them eventually. He hoped that it would be sooner, much sooner, rather than later.

One of these days, indeed.


End file.
